Harry Potter and the Peverell Legacy
by tartan-slippers
Summary: A 5 chapter condensed LBPB fic starring Harry/Tonks and Manipulative!Dumbledore, for the Teacher's Lounge I Never Challenge.
1. Part 1

**A/N: This is chapter 1 of 4 of a story for the I Never Challenge set by the Teacher's Lounge. It is an LBPB fic - not my usual genre at all, and a bit of a crack!fic, so bear with me...**

 **Disclaimer: It's all JKR's. Except the nonsense.**

* * *

It was summer time at number four Privet Drive, and Harry Potter was Brooding. Whilst a common pastime for a teenage boy, this was no ordinary Brooding: Harry was Brooding over the death of his much loved godfather, Sirius Black, and the revelation of the prophecy he had destroyed in the Department of Mysteries. This, therefore, was Serious, Adult Brooding.

For a while that afternoon, Harry had retreated to the familiar and very suitable-for-Brooding cupboard under the stairs, and had achieved rather a high level of simultaneous melancholy, guilt, and self-pity. However, on discovering Harry folded up amongst the cleaning supplies, Petunia had screamed rather loudly and beaten him with a broom until he scrambled for the quiet of the smallest bedroom.

It was whilst Harry was fully occupied with a particularly stewed bout of Brooding that he was suddenly disrupted by a large tawny owl at the window. He was slightly irritated to be disturbed, but the promise of some contact from the wizarding world during his summer's indenture with the Dursleys was worth the brief suspension of business.

The letter was not, as he had suspected, from either Ron or Hermione. It wasn't even from Professor Dumbledore, whom Harry had still not totally forgiven for last year's treatment, which had inadvertently caused the events of the previous month. The letter, instead, was signed by a Mr Jeremy Jenkins Esq, Solicitor in Magical Law - a gentleman Harry had not only never met, but was sure he had never even heard mentioned before.

 _Dear Mr Potter,_

 _Due to your absence during the reading of the will of Sirius Orion Black, it falls to myself to inform you that, due to late changes to the contents of the will, you are no longer the legal heir to the Black fortune, titles, and all that accompanies the inheritance._

 _Whilst the deceased wished you all the best, he felt it would not be beneficial "for the greater good" for you to inherit._

 _Sympathies,_

 _Mr Jeremy Jenkins Esq_

 _Solicitor in Magical Law_

 _Jenkins &Jeffries Solicitors_

 _London_

Harry paused, more than a trifle Confused, and re-read the letter. There were more than a few questions raised by this unexpected letter, and not a single one answered - a feeling commonly attributed to dealings with lawyers, but one which Harry had not had the dubious pleasure of enduring before. Sirius had a will? He had intended to leave something to Harry? Why had he decided not to? Why had he not been invoted to the reading, despite quite blatantly being an Adult now? Why did Sirius hire a solicitor with neither tact in delivering bad news, nor any skill at all in letter writing?

And what was the fortune and title that was referenced?

Harry hadn't been aware that there _were_ titles in the wizarding world before now. It was strange that a magical peerage wasn't something that had come up in conversation at some point during the last five years at Hogwarts. However, this was Britain, after all, and whilst the aristocrats had become a little quieter with time and the example of the French, the class system was most definitely still at play. That, and visiting a room full of brains, meeting a Blast-Ended Skrewt, and seeing the face of Lord Voldemort in the back of a teacher's head had significantly raised Harry's game in suspension of disbelief.

However, Harry Potter was Suspicious. This was actually a fairly typical emotive reaction for him upon finding a question he couldn't answer and that no one else cared about in any way - possibly a part of why his relationship with Professor Snape was so horribly sour - however he was absolutely sure that, this time, he was right to be Suspicious. Even if recent experiences should possibly have taught him better.

Therefore it was a Suspicious mood rather than a Brooding one that Dumbledore found Harry mired in some hours later when he Apparated with a large crack into Harry's bedroom. Dumbledore hid his surprise at this discovery efficiently behind his silvery beard - this being the main reason why all wizards of great power sport voluminous facial hair, of course - and ignored the half-surprised, half-disgusted expression on Harry's face that made it quite clear that Harry would not be changing in his bedroom ever again.

"Ah, Harry, there you are," the old wizard beamed over his half-moon spectacles. Harry fidgeted awkwardly: of course _he_ was there, it was _his_ bedroom.

"I've come to offer my condolences on your sad news."

Harry was Confused.

"Professor, Sirius died back in May. You were there. You duelled Voldemort in the Ministry of Magic. Remember?"

Dumbledore frowned, his expression reflecting Harry's like a grotesque carnival mirror.

"Not that, Harry. Although, of course, you have my every sympathy. No, I meant the details of Sirius' will."

At that moment, Harry's Confusion reached the critical mass required for it to spontaneously convert into Suspicion.

"How do you know about Sirius' will, Professor? I've only just received the letter."

"I was at the reading, Harry. Sirius left everything to the Order of the Phoenix, you know. For the greater good."

 _For the greater good_. Something about the phrase seemed both familiar and significant, but, unable to immediately remember why, Harry promptly and conveniently forgot about it.

"Sirius died a good death, Harry. The best he could hope for: protecting the ones he loved. I know it will be hard for you without his emotional support, but you are an Adult now, and hopefully, with the Ministry and the media now on our side, you won't be under quite as much pressure. Except to defeat Voldemort, of course. And pass your exams."

It wasn't often Harry was rendered completely incapable of some kind of rebellious-teenage-boy comeback, especially to a teacher who seemed to be mad, but on this occasion it appeared to be the case.

"I'm so glad we've had this little chat, Harry. We'll meet again, soon - and I'll bring some lemon sherbets next time."

At that, Dumbledore Disapparated. But Harry continued to stare, wide-eyed, at his bedroom wall. Lemon sherbets. _Lemon sherbets_.

Dumbledore never delivered bad news without some form of accompanying confectionary - not unless it was so sudden that he hadn't had time to prepare. Harry had experienced enough of both scenarios to know immediately the validity of the theory. That meant that this was no planned consolatory visit: something had prompted Dumbledore to rush to Harry's side, and _not to tell him what_. Dumbledore, once again, despite his promise and the fact that Harry was obvious an Adult now, was keeping things from him.

Harry Potter was most definitely Suspicious.

* * *

It was time for his summer jaunt to the organised chaos of The Burrow, and Harry Potter was Relieved. It was quite a visceral feeling: not only did he feel significantly lighter the further away from Privet Drive he went, but he was very much looking forward to sharing his Suspicion with some sympathetic ears. Or Ron and Hermione, which was probably more likely.

Mrs Weasley fussed around him like a mother hen, as always, and whilst she studiously avoided mentioning Sirius' name, she certainly alluded to his feelings of grief and loss often enough for him to get the gist. However, he did escape as soon as politely possible to confer with his best friends on the Suspicious matters of the last few days.

"So," Harry concluded with aplomb, "You can see why I'm Suspicious."

Ron and Hermione shared a dubious glance.

"Harry," Hermione began, gently, "I understand how you must be feeling, but Dumbledore is the one who has helped and guided you for the last five years. I just don't see why he would do that to you."

"Plus," Ron added jovially, "It's not like he needed to. Neither he nor the Order needs to steal people's inheritances to get by."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but seeing the unconvinced expressions on his friends' faces, he bit back his retort. They were obviously utterly converted members of the cult of Dumbledore. Or maybe it was more like an army of zombies.

"Don't be angry," Hermione pleaded as she noticed Harry's eyes harden, "I know you're angry about Sirius' death, but I just think you're -"

"I'm not angry!" Harry shouted, angrily.

Hermione gave him a questioning look.

"… at you," Harry finished lamely.

"Of course," Hermione said with a slightly condescending tone.

But she relented, as she always did to Harry's inane plans.

"I'll do some research for you, and see what I can find about Sirius' will," she offered, and Harry beamed at her.

"Thanks, Hermione. I really think you're going to find something."

"Ok, but if I don't, you really have to let this go."

"I really will, honestly," Harry lied brightly.

* * *

It was the middle of the night at number four, Privet Drive, and Harry Potter was asleep. Or, he was, until Errol smacked rather loudly into his bedroom window, and let out an indignant squawk. Harry was disoriented for a moment, half expecting something to be trying to kill him (it did seem to happen inordinately often), but quickly rose to rescue to hapless owl.

The letter was from Hermione, whom he assumed must therefore still be at the Weasleys. That was definitely Suspicious; he was certain that they were talking about him and how delusional they thought he was. They might even be telling Dumbledore. A very sad thought occurred to him: maybe he would have to leave his best friends out of this. Until he was sure they were free of Dumbledore's influence, they couldn't be trusted.

 _Dear Harry,_

 _I did a little research for lawyer was a little fuzzy on the details of the change to the will, but it seemed to happen just after Christmas. He clarified that Sirius left everything to the Order, through Dumbledore, for use towards the greater good. Nothing suspicious at all - so remember your word._

 _Hermione_

Harry froze. It was all left to Dumbledore? Sirius had altered his will to cut out Harry, his beloved godson, to fund the Order? _For the greater good_?

Something stung Harry about that phrase, but he felt too Impatient to reason it out. Instead, he hit on a plan: a plan to figure out exactly what Sirius hadn't left to him, and why. He drew out some parchment, and began writing a letter. A letter to a character even more Suspicious than Dumbledore...


	2. Part 2

**Disclaimer: It's all JKR's. Always.**

* * *

It was a bright, sunny summer's day in Diagon Alley, and Harry Potter was on a mission. He didn't stop in Quality Quidditch Supplies, didn't look in the window of Fortescue's, and didn't even look in the direction of Flourish & Blotts' (not that the latter was particularly a temptation). He kept his eyes on the large marble building at the far end of the alley: Gringott's.

Harry swept into the wizarding bank in a very Adult way, but before the door had even closed behind him, he deflated, and made his way as quietly as possibly across the marble floor. Gringott's had that effect on people, rather like a library; probably because goblins have as much respect for Galleons all gathered in one place as wizards do for books. Only Galleons are less likely to try and bite.

An imperious looking goblin (albeit, 'imperious looking' is a phrase that could be used to describe most goblins, and so wasn't a particularly defining feature) gestured for Harry to approach his desk, and Harry fumbled for his vault key, deep in his pocket.

"Harry Potter, just here to check the tally of contents of my safe," he said, handing over the key for goblin inspection. The goblin frowned as it checked the key, but, as he handed it back over without complaint, it appeared everything was acceptable.

"I'll have to go and find your record," the goblin said, sounding terribly put out by the whole affair. Harry had to bite his lip to stop himself apologising.

The goblin disappeared for several minutes leaving Harry to twiddle his thumbs, although rather unsuccessfully as he wasn't entirely sure how it was supposed to be done. The goblin eventually returned with a rather large and exceedingly dusty tome, which he dropped on his desk with a resounding thud. He quickly rifled through the pages, before finding the entries he was searching for. Harry leaned forward, hopefully.

"Your last withdrawal was at Easter, Mr Potter, and since then your interest for the tax year has been calculated and paid, and the quarterly trust fund payment made."

"Trust fund payment?" Harry asked, with Suspicion, although less surprise than one might have thought usual under the circumstances.

"Of course. Our orders regarding payment into your account from the main Potter account are fully complied with, I assure you."

"And, eh," Harry hesitated, finding thinking and speaking at the same time a troubling task, " _whose_ orders are those, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Your parents'. They left explicit instructions in their will as to how much money was to be paid to you on the occasion of their death," the goblin answered defensively, looking suspicious.

"And who was the main benefactor of that will, who now oversees the payments into my trust fund?" Harry asked, although he thought he knew the answer already.

"Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, of Hogwarts."

"Thank you," Harry said, channelling all of his Adultness, "That will be all today."

The goblin muttered something, most likely unflattering, in Gobbledegook that Harry didn't understand, but disappeared with the ledger without overt complaint. Harry turned, and made his way out of the wizard bank.

So. Sirius' will had been changed to benefit Dumbledore and the Order, the occasion of which the lawyer was fuzzy about. The Potters' had also left their fortune to the Professor, rather than their own son. It seemed like some dodgy dealing was going on: and with Harry at the centre of it. Why was Dumbledore trying to hard to keep Harry from his rightful inheritance?

The answer, he hoped, lay at his next appointment.

Harry quickly made his way back down Diagon Alley towards Eeylops' Owl Emporium. He had spent some time working out which shop would be the least likely to see a visit from either Ron or Hermione, which, considering the vast differences in their shopping habits, was a very short list to choose from. But the Emporium seemed the best choice.

He slipped in between the rows of gently cooing cages until he reached the back corner of the store, where the toads were kept. Being a rather unfashionable pet, it was a very secluded place, which was perfect for a clandestine meeting.

"Afternoon, Potter," came a familiar voice from behind him. Harry turned to see, oddly enough, the very person he had planned to meet.

"Mundungus Fletcher. Thanks for coming," Harry said with a slightly forced smile, the smell of tobacco and alcohol so strong it made his eyes water. The nearby toads began to look as though they had been poisoned.

"Don' mention it, don' mention it. Task like this is much more me sort ov fing than fightin' bleedin' Death Eaters."

It was a risk asking for help from Mundungus Fletcher. His morals, courage and personal hygiene aside, he was also extremely loyal to Dumbledore. But Harry was hoping he could work around that, as long as Dung didn't recognise how thoroughly Suspicious of Dumbledore Harry had become.

"So, Dung, what did you find?" Harry asked, hiding his impatience masterfully.

"Awright, then. The Black inheritance consisted ov a vault full ov gold an' jewels an' the like, the 'ouse at Grimmauld Place - which did not originally come wiv a set ov silverware, by the way, no matter what that bleedin' 'ouse elf says - and the Island ov Azkaban an' the rent that takes in, plus the Black family seat on the Wizengamot an' the title ov Lord Black, Earl ov Azkaban. All ov it now belongs to Dumbledore, an' the lawyer is pretty fuzzy about 'ow that came to be the case."

Harry was Surprised. The vault of gold and Grimmauld Place he had expected: but seats on the Wizengamot? And the _Island of Azkaban_? Sirius owned the very prison he'd be locked in for twelve years? It was horribly ironic.

"What about the Potters' will?" Harry asked, keeping his expression blank. He had a feeling he knew what Dung would have to say on this, too, but he squashed down his emotions. He was, after all, an Adult.

"The Potters left evryfing to you, lad, an' the lawyer seems a bit fuzzy on why it's been left in trust. Right now, you get a stipend, an' the main vault, plus Potter Manor an' the seat on the Wizengamot an' the title of Sir Potter, Marquis ov Peverell, are under Dumbledore's control."

Harry nodded. His Suspicions appeared to be correct.

"Oh, an' on top ov all that, I done some more diggin', and turns out you're also the Heir of Squigwiffle. Ain't that somefing?"

Harry was Gobsmacked. The Heir of… who now?

"What's a Squigwiffle when it's at home?" Harry asked, perplexedly.

"Well, I wasn' all that sure an' all, but turns out 'e was the fifth founder of 'Ogwarts!"

The fifth founder of Hogwarts? This sounded like a rather unrealistic sort of plot twist to Harry.

"Turns out there was five ov 'em, but ol' Squigwiffle drew the short straw, lit'rally, and didn' get one ov the four towers to start an 'Ouse. Even though 'Ufflepuff moved down near the kitchens to better cope wiv 'er constant munchies, and Slyverin down to the dungeons so 'e could better pet that giant snake of 'is in private, they wouldn' let Squigwiffle 'ave one. So 'e went in an 'uff, an' built 'is own 'ouse at the end of the road by 'imself."

Harry began to put two and two together, albeit it had been years since he'd been in a Maths classroom and he wasn't quite sure he could remember how.

"So I own the Shrieking Shack now, do I?"

"The 'ole of 'Ogsmeade, more like, lad! Although you don' strictly own it as yet - ol' Dumbledore 'as that one on trust for you an' all."

"So I could be Lord Black Sir Potter, Earl of Azkaban, Marquis of Peverell, Heir of Squigwiffle right now, if things had been ever so slightly different?"

Like if Dumbledore wasn't a gold digger, different.

"Well, thanks for this, Dung," Harry pretended to be calm, but his mind was already racing ahead. The things he could do if he had that kind of power and influence! The Ministry would never dared have treated him like a liar, and he wouldn't have that scar on the back of his hand. He could have enough power to properly oppose Voldemort, rather than hiding away from him, scared all the time. What was the in the prophecy about a power the Dark Lord knew not?

"If you hear of anything else regarding any of these legacies, you will let me know, won't you?"

"Course," Dung said with a grin, and he stretched out his hand. Harry dug into the pocket of his jeans, and pulled out a rather large (numeratively, rather than physically) cheque, which Dung stashed greedily in the depths of his robes.

"Nice doin' bus'ness wiv you," he grinned, then promptly Disapparated with a loud crack.

Harry Potter had some thinking to do.


	3. Part 3

The shadows were starting to get long in the park, and Harry Potter was very late for his dinner. Not that the Dursleys would have saved him any, or even have cared that he'd been missing. But there was a very significant reason why Harry had missed his evening meal.

That reason had just sat down next to him on the park bench, and opened a newspaper.

"Good evening, Mr Potter. I will admit, I was somewhat surprised to receive your owl. I was lead to believe that you shared a dislike of the Ministry with Albus Dumbledore."

Harry didn't turn to look at the man next to him, although he dearly wanted to see if he looked as much like an old lion in the flesh as he did in the photos in the _Prophet_.

"Mr Scrimgeour. I appreciate you coming along. I have a… proposition for you."

The man beside him tensed.

"I prefer 'Minister', if you don't mind," Scrimgeour corrected Harry, a note of steel in his voice. This man was no Fudge, that much was obvious. So, maybe he would be able to help.

"Well, I prefer Lord Black Sir Potter, Earl of Azkaban, Marquis of Peverell, Heir of Squigwiffle; we don't all get to be referred to by our rightful titles, Mr Scrimgeour."

There was a long silence, during which Scrimgeour turned the page in his newspaper and shook out the pages.

"I assume this relates to the discrepancies in the wills of Lily and James Potter and Sirius Black?"

"You assume correct, Mr Scrimgeour, although I won't ask why the Ministry has done nothing about this information before now."

"Mr Potter," Scrimgeour said tersely, "You and Albus Dumbledore have appeared as thick as thieves until now. And you are underage. Exactly what was supposed to indicate that you, rather than your mentor, should have full control of the Potter and Black names and all that goes with them?"

"It has come to my attention that Dumbledore and I… don't have the same vision any more. I am more than capable of managing my own inheritance, and fighting this war on my own terms. However, in exchange for some assistance in gaining my rightful inheritance, I would certainly be more than willing to work with and support the Ministry. We share the same goal, after all, of defeating Voldemort."

Scrimgeour fought back a shudder at Harry's casual use of the name in the same way most children do at the mention of brussels sprouts - full of unmentionable terror.

"You realise that to receive that inheritance, you must be an adult?"

Harry Potter _was_ an Adult. It was only the bits of paper that didn't seem to realise that. Them, and Dumbledore.

"I understand that, as an emancipated minor, I could have the same legal rights?"

Scrimgeour's eyebrows rose.

"For that, you would need to be entirely economically independent -"

"Which I would be," Harry interjected.

"- emotionally capable of living alone -"

"I've lived with the Dursleys for 15 years - I don't need emotional support in my home environment."

"- and an unsuitable home environment."

"Again, the Dursleys," Harry pointed out.

Scrimgeour looked thoughtful.

"Come by the Ministry tomorrow. We might just be able to come to some more formal arrangement."

"Not at the Ministry, Mr Scrimgeour. I can't have Dumbledore's spies getting word of this."

There was a pregnant pause.

"At the Leaky Cauldron, then? 10 o'clock?"

"Yes. I'll see you there."

"Until then," Scrimgeour said, raising a hand to wave to someone in the distance that Harry couldn't see (he really needed new glasses), "I want you to have some Auror protection. Just in case our meeting hasn't been as surreptitious as we hoped."

At that moment, Tonks Apparated beside the park bench. Harry couldn't hide his look of surprise - he hadn't seen her since the Battle at the Department of Mysteries, and his attention had been elsewhere at that point. She had let her hair grow out, possibly only in the last few seconds, and her nose didn't look as animalistic as he remembered. All in all, she was surprisingly pretty.

"I will see you tomorrow, Mr Potter," Scrimgeour said with an arch look, before he Disapparated.

Harry Potter was left alone with Tonks. They were still for a minute, Harry feeling awfully Awkward and not at all Adult. But then Tonks broke the silence by reaching out with her hand to pull him up off the bench.

"Wotcher, Harry," she said with a smile. A rather pretty smile. Harry took her hand.

It was then that a rather strange thing happened - and strange to a boy who has watched his best friend's pet rat turn into the man who betrayed his parents to their deaths is most definitely strange. Where their hands met, a strange silver-blue ribbon of light began to wind its way around them. Harry was mesmerised: what sort of magic was this? The light continued, twisting and turning until their hands were completely tied together. Then, it exploded in a huge flash of light, leaving Harry blinded for a moment.

"Oh no, Dudley's going to know where to find me, now," Harry complained.

As his vision cleared, he noticed that Tonks was looking at him with an oddly stunned expression.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked, Awkwardly running a hand through his hair. She didn't look alright, but he'd learned the hard way that you never just assume with girls.

"I think…" she said, weakly, looking at Harry with a strange fascination, "I think we just soul-bonded."

She was quite obviously mad. Harry had never heard of a soul-bond before (it sounded like something out of one of Mrs Weasley's dirty novels), and certainly didn't believe that was what that strange light was.

But then he looked at Tonks. He really looked at her, up and down, taking in how pretty she looked without a pig's snout.

"Yeah, definitely, we did," he agreed, with a grin.

* * *

It was very, very early in the morning at number four, Privet Drive, and Harry Potter was Sneaking Out. Whilst he felt a little guilty leaving Tonks at the mercy of the Dursleys, he really didn't want to face her this morning. He needed all his quick wits for dealing with the Ministry, and Tonks was an Auror, after all - she could defend herself.

He would certainly have to figure out how that light thing happened, though. That soul-bonding nonsense had worked like a… well, charm. He couldn't help grinning to himself as he made his way towards London and his meeting with the Minister for Magic.

Unfortunately, it turned out that Tonks had beat him to the Leaky Cauldron. She was Not Happy, and made that perfectly clear by refusing to speak to speak to him, and turning his Butterbeer into Hippogriff urine.

See, if he were emancipated, he could have got his Apparition license, and this would never have happened.

"Look," he said, steeling himself for her rage, "I'm really sorry I lied."

"So you should be," she replied, looking murderous. The thought crossed Harry's mind that, as an Auror, she could probably get away with it, too.

"I just thought -"

"You didn't think at all, Harry. We're soul-bonded. You should have just woken me up and we'd have come here together. Instead I had to deal with your pet whale by myself."

Harry frowned, before it occurred to him that it sounded rather like Dudley.

"Yes, I'm sorry, but -" Harry stopped, short. Wait, what had she said? Before she'd distracted him with the comment about Dudley? We're soul-bonded? Had he not just apologised for that?

"I'll forgive you this once, but we head back _together_ and leave for Potter Manor _together_ , ok? No more sneaking off like a child."

Harry wasn't entirely sure what had just happened, but it seemed that he was forgiven. And, of course, he wasn't a child, he was an Adult - he was fairly sure he had proved that last night. But he let it rest. One thing he had learned as an Adult was that sometimes you just had to let women be Right.

It was at that moment that the Minister for Magic arrived. Although, the fact he was the Minister for Magic was not at first apparent, being as he had decided to attend the meeting with his head wrapped up in bandages, like a mummy. His identity only became apparent when he sat down beside Harry, and asked if he was ready to become Lord Black Sir Potter, etc.

"You do know this isn't the Hog's Head, Mr Scrimgeour?" Harry asked carefully, "This sort of thing isn't the norm."

"But it is a complete identity shrouder, and that's the important thing. Anyway, we have paperwork to sign, if you still intend to meet your side of our agreement?"

"Of course I do," Harry said, irritably.

Scrimgeour drew out a stack of parchment from his briefcase. Harry's eyes widened.

"Just sign and date at the bottom."

Harry flicked through the reams of paper, the only small print mentioning something about seizing the Dursleys which Harry wasn't too bothered by. He lifted his quill, and signed his name at the bottom.

Harry quite suddenly felt Not Right. He felt woozy, and nauseous, and his head began spinning.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Tonks asked worriedly from the other side of the table.

"It must be the Trace leaving him," Scrimgeour waved brusquely.

But it wasn't. Not unless residual Trace magic has the power to suddenly leave everyone in a ten foot radius gasping for breath.

"Harry!" breathed Tonks hoarsely, clutching at her throat. Harry shook his head trying to clear the dizziness. What was happening?

Then, as suddenly as it began, the dizziness and nausea vanished, and everyone around Harry could suddenly breathe again, hauling air into their lungs in huge pants.

"Well, that was odd," Harry said, considering.


	4. Part 4

It was a golden late afternoon at number four Privet Drive, and Harry Potter was Packing. Or, rather, Tonks was Packing, and Harry was enjoying dropping items on the floor and watching her pick them up.

"You'll love Potter Manor, Harry - I went once on a mission for the Order, and it's amazing. Chandeliers, a ballroom, a gilded bathtub, more house elves than you have odd socks and a home cinema."

Harry wondered how bored his parents must have been when they were in hiding. Although, knowing how young they'd had him, possibly they hadn't been bored at all.

"It sounds great, Tonks," Harry said with a smile, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Tonks frowned.

"Harry, what's wrong? Have you had second thoughts?"

Harry paused. He hadn't - not about becoming emancipated and taking up his collections of titles and inheritances. But he was sad that he didn't have his best friends beside him. They hadn't been able to see past Dumbledore's lies. At least he had Tonks, he thought, and gave her a warm smile that made her hair turn red.

"Enough of that," she said, throwing a box of chocolate frogs at him, "or we'll never get packed."

Harry laughed. He could certainly get used to this.

"And you're ok with coming to Potter Manor with me? No second thoughts?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Of course I am. None at all. The minute we soul-bonded, this was the outcome."

Of course, the soul-bonding thing. Harry choked back a laugh quite commendably.

"And the age difference doesn't put you off?" he probed further.

"You know," Tonks replied, thoughtfully, "I don't think age differences in a relationship have ever been a red line for me."

That was useful to know, although Harry felt sure he was missing something important.

It was at that moment that Albus Dumbledore Apparated into Harry's bedroom. Not for the first time, Harry wondered why Dumbledore couldn't use the front door, like an ordinary person, instead of violating his privacy. Imagine if he'd arrived that morning… things could have been very awkward indeed.

"Ah, Harry, there you are," Dumbledore beamed, as though Harry's bedroom was not a particularly likely place in which to find Harry.

"Professor, now really isn't the time," Harry started, not particularly wanting to call Dumbledore out in the Dursleys' smallest bedroom with his new soul-bonded life partner in the room.

"I'm here to discuss Grimmauld Place. You know that Sirius left it to the Order, but for some reason the Fidelius Charm has been broken, and I was a little concerned that…"

Dumbledore trailed off. He was staring at Harry, looking rather more shocked than Harry had ever seen the Headmaster before. Harry raised his hand to his face instinctively.

"I haven't got owl poop on my face, do I, sir? I'm sure I washed my hands after cleaning Hedwig out."

"I would have told you if you had. Probably," Tonks added, helpfully.

"Mr Potter," Dumbledore interrupted, looking as stern as possible for an old man in robes with an incredible beard and a ridiculous hat who has to peer over his spectacles, "What have you _done_?"

It was an instinctive reaction for Harry to feel guilty. He had broken his fair share of rules at Hogwarts, after all, and whilst it was usually Professor McGonagall who used that tone with him, there was something immediately and irrevocably quelling about it.

"Um, are you sure it wasn't Ron?" he deflected without hesitation.

"I'm fairly sure that Mr Weasley has nothing to do with the lack of Trace magic and surge in power that I can sense around you, Mr Potter," Dumbledore replied.

"Ah," Harry said.

"I didn't think that mystical magic-sensing was a canon part of our magic system, Professor," Tonks said, carefully, with a hint of a question.

"I don't think anything has seemed particularly realistic ever since I received that letter about Sirius' will: let's face it, I haven't done nearly enough sulking," Harry pointed out.

"Indeed, but plots must be progressed, mustn't they, Mr Potter and Miss Tonks?" Dumbledore beamed over his spectacles.

"Speaking of which," Harry continued, "I have become legally emancipated, and have inherited everything that comes with the name of Lord Black, Earl of Azkaban, Sir Potter, Marquis of Peverell, Heir of Snotsniffle. So there."

"I'm fairly sure it was 'Squigwiffle', Harry," Tonks whispered.

"He was the Forgotten Founder - I doubt anybody else remembers his name, so it surely doesn't matter if I don't," Harry reasoned.

Dumbledore looked aghast, although whether at Harry's revelation or lack of historical knowledge despite five years of History of Magic classes at his school was uncertain.

"You are not the man I thought you were, Harry. By making this unconsidered and poorly plotted decision, you have shown yourself to be an inconsiderate child who has no thought for the greater good."

There it was again. _The greater good_. Why did everyone associated with Dumbledore keep using this phrase? And why was it so menacing? And why had he not taken that extra sandwich at lunchtime?

It was at that moment, rather conveniently, that a Chocolate Frog card fell off of the pile on unpacked belongings next to Harry, to land at his feet. It was rather unfortunate, however, particularly in relation to the last question in Harry's mind, that there was no chocolate with it.

It was Dumbledore's card. And there, in black and white, was -

"- _particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945_!" Harry yelled triumphantly.

Dumbledore and Tonks shared a look of utter bemusement.

"The whole ' _the greater good_ ' thing? The foreshadowing that's been going on pretty nonstop since the start of this mess? Dumbledore obviously justifying actions that are ethically dubious by claiming utilitarianism?" Harry prompted, feeling a trifle frustrated. If _he'd_ figured it out then the Hogwarts Headmaster and a fully trained Auror certainly should have.

"You stupid, stupid little boy," Dumbledore fumed, "You don't understand anything. This has always had only two possible outcomes: it's either you or Voldemort. I've been doing everything in my power, everything I can conceive of to ensure that you win the day. And you have the temerity to challenge me?"

Dumbledore drew his wand, and pointed it at Harry. Harry froze: this had gone from amusingly perplexing to seriously scary in three seconds flat. He felt the adrenaline flood his system as he stood at Dumbledore's wand point. And then, rather suddenly, Harry felt an oddly familiar feeling of dizziness and nausea hit him rather like the Knight Bus.

Dumbledore dropped his wand. His hands went to his throat, and he began coughing and spluttering. His face turned red, and his eyes bulged, and still his hands scrabbled against the invisible force that appeared to be strangling him. He seemed to trip, landing on his knees with a desperate expression.

Harry was Shocked. This strange, nausea-inducing power he had discovered could even drive someone like Dumbledore to his knees. The Shock, however, seemed enough to drive away the dizziness, and at once Dumbledore was able to breathe again.

"The Peverell Legacy," Dumbledore gasped.

"The who now?" Harry enquired. But, completely uncharacteristically, Dumbledore didn't feel the need to relieve Harry's ignorant state.

"Oh what have you _done_?" Dumbledore lamented, not able to meet Harry's gaze.

Harry had Had Enough. This old man only wanted to manipulate him, steal from him, and generally keep Harry under his thumb - but Harry was an Adult, and totally able to look after himself and fight his own battles. Particularly as the Prophecy seemed to hint that he would have to fight Voldemort on his own anyway.

"Look, Professor," Harry sighed in a world-weary fashion, "just give me the keys to Grimmauld Place and Potter Manor. And the rest as well. Now, before I call the Auror Office and report that you've tried to attack me."

"I was going to invite you along on my Horcrux-hunting mission and everything, you know," Dumbledore pouted as he fumbled in the pockets of his robes.

"Sir, you know that the pupil never becomes a master until they lose their mentor. Either I leave now to find my own path to victory, or you'll end up dead at an inopportune moment without having revealed all of the plan, and I'll end up wandering around the woods for months trying to figure out how to save the world," Harry said, firmly.

"Yeah, haven't you seen _Star Wars_?" Tonks interjected.

"Erm," Harry looked unconvinced, "Was there wood-wandering in _Star Wars_?"

"Not literally, bar the Ewoks, but figuratively there was the whole of _The Empire Strikes Back_ ," Tonks pointed out.

And with that insightful point, Dumbledore relinquished the keys to Harry.

"You'll regret this, Mr Potter," he said imperiously as he rose to his feet before promptly Disapparating.

It seemed that the Dursleys would only cope with so many raised voices, bangs, cracks and generally suspicious noises coming from Harry's bedroom. Mr Dursley burst through the door, his face rather puce, and whilst the sight of Tonks checked him for a moment - a pretty, older girl in Harry's bedroom? When had the fabric of the universe altered? - he soon rallied and demanded an Explanation.

"What the devil is going on in my house, boy!" he boomed.

Harry rubbed at the eardrum closest to Mr Dursley which he suspected no longer functioned. He had Had Enough - not just of Dumbledore's machinations, but of the prophecy, of Lord Voldemort, of his destiny and most of all of the Dursleys and their inability to either treat him like family or else leave him well alone.

"I'm moving out, Uncle Vernon," he said, in a way that brooked no argument.

Mr Dursley faltered. Part of him instinctively wanted to argue, to bar Harry from leaving simply because he had the power to. But a (very) slightly smarter part of him realised that this would be counterproductive to his own and his family's happiness, too. So, Mr Dursley harumphed a bit, and gave Harry a very Suspicious glare, but said absolutely nothing to the contrary. Instead he merely inspected Harry's belongings as they were removed, making entirely sure that the boy had taken nothing with him that he hadn't bought himself.

Harry wasn't entirely satisfied with the way he left things with Uncle Vernon. He had envisioned the man trying to hit him, and Harry using his awful new power to choke him half to death before receiving a full apology and admission of childhood neglect. He had wanted Vernon to respect him - to be _afraid_ of him. He spent most of the quick trip in their flying taxi (why hadn't one of these been available during that infamous incident in his second year?) towards Potter Manor imagining much more pleasurable scenarios than reality. But he didn't have long to Brood over his horrible family, quite thankfully, or else he might have got into such a funk that he never found his way out again. His arrival at Potter Manor very soon took up all of Harry's attention.

"Wotcher, Harry," Tonks said with a grin as they gazed up at the palatial towers of their new home.


End file.
